What Do I Call You?
by SuNRisESuNSeT96
Summary: QLC 2: It has been awhile since I last wrote to you, over a year now...


Round 6

Words: 1247

Warnings: mentions of torture and past deaths

Prompts:

(5) "I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don't" – W. Somerset Maughan /quote/

(13) jealousy /emotion/

(14) freedom /word/

What Do I Call You?

Dear Mom,

Should I call even call you such, though? It is not as if we know each other all that well or at all, really. _Mother_ feels too formal, somehow and calling you by your given name…

What an excellent way to begin a letter, wouldn't you agree? I don't even know what to call you. I suppose it doesn't matter. In the end, you are not even going to read this letter even if I do send it.

I used to write to you, to both of you, almost daily back in first year. Telling you how my day's been, how I've been feeling about it and all that. I'd ask if you remember, but we both know that I sent those letters as much as I'll send this one. I suppose it doesn't matter that you've never read or will read any of this. It never was about you, it was about me. Writing those letters was my way of keeping a journal. It's pathetic, really, writing to my parents (who might as well be dead) to complain about the classes and how hard they are for me (even though they've never been for you) and how I can't make friends (I have friends now, but it is not as if they understand me). I acted like a spoiled little boy, running to complain to Mommy and Daddy hoping they'll make it all better.

I suppose you're wondering way I am writing to you now. It has been over a year since my last letter. Many things happened in the last few months and many times all I wanted was to pick up the quill and write to you (or Dad, Father, I don't know how to call him either), so I can tell you about everything. So I can, even if only for the briefest moment, pretend that you are alright and are here for me. I foolish dream, I know, but it gave me comfort, for a little while. Being able to pretend that you know me, that I know you – back in First year was all that kept me sane.

But I digress. I don't know how to say this. There are no right words. Not for this, never for this. Mom, she, the women responsible for all of this, the one I swore to kill when I was seven, she is free. She (and refuse to write down her name, to give her the honor of naming her) along with many other Death Eaters broke free from Azkaban a fortnight ago. The Daily Prophet reported it. Their crimes were also listed. And I hate this - I hate the pitting looks I get from people I don't know or care about! I hate the questions like how I am feeling or if I am alright! I hate how some random people I have never met are butting in my family's business! And the Slytherins, their condescending smiles and sneers, I hate them most of all!

I just want to shout to world that I am not fine! That I don't want their pity or have desire to answer their questions! It's not fair! It's not! You and Dad are locked inside your own heads because of her and she is free! She does not deserve this! She does not deserve **freedom** while you have none!

And they ask me if I am fine! I am not _fine,_ not even remotely. And yet, each time I say I am. It is strange, **how I always find it more difficult to say the things I men, than the things I don't**. but what can I say? It's not as if they'll understand, it'll just be more awkward for all of us.

But it's not just me. It's all of us who lost family during the war whose murderer escaped. It's like we've suddenly become celebrities because we have relative who died (or might as well have) and we are alive. I get how Harry feels now. Being famous because the night your parents died you didn't. I'd hate it as well. And the worst part is - no one seems to understand or care. They're all driven by their curiosity and keep on asking question after question after question.

Though I prefer the interrogations to being pitied. At least they are not pretending when they asking questions. At least all I have to do is lie and walk away, not pretend that I am not insulted by their false sympathy. And when it's real, when the person saying "I'm sorry for your loss" is genuinely feeling sorry, it takes me everything I have not to scream in anger. What do they know about loss? Most of them have both their parents alive and, and sane and they've never had to go through what I've been through. They've never had to compete with a ghost of the past and always, always be found lacking.

I try not to be **jealous** of them. I try to tell myself that my parent are heroes and that I should honor their (your) sacrifice, that I should be grateful to be the son of such brave and noble people but, but all I feel is jealousy. It is because I grew up listening about my parents, but not knowing them; because while I know that Grandmother loves me, she is cold, so cold and I, I just wish that you were there to hug me and kiss me and tell me that everything is going to be alright. I wish you could tell me you are proud of me, that I am not letting you or Dad down, that you love me. I would give up so much for just a single word from either of you. I would give up everything for an hour with you. An hour that is not spend in the hospital with you starring at me with vacant eyes, not hearing or comprehending what I am saying.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were there, you know, at St Mungo's last Yule. They knew before the newspaper. I have never felt more ashamed in my life, when I saw them in the room. And I don't know why I was ashamed. Maybe it was because they saw what you've sacrificed for me and how poorly I've been repaying you. Or perhaps because I never, not once, did I mention you to any of them. I wish, I hope, it was because of those reasons. But, deep down, I fear that, that I was ashamed because of you. Because of the fact that you are living in the loony bin because you weren't strong enough to endure the Cruciatus.

There was a time when I hated you for it, for being too weak, for giving up, for leaving me. But you didn't, you didn't give up and that's why you're in the 'loony bin' and I am a terrible son.

I am sorry, so very sorry for thinking this, for feeling this, for letting you down. Maybe if I knew what to say, you would respond. Maybe if I knew the right words you would get better. Because all I can do is talk and I am sorry for it.

I will try to find her, I give you my word. And I will do my best to kill her. I may be a disappointment, but I will do my best.

Your son,

Neville


End file.
